


For the Fallen

by CelticKnot



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-06 06:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14050842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelticKnot/pseuds/CelticKnot
Summary: Garrus and Shepard mourn those who fell at Rannoch.





	For the Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> The first time I played ME3, I lost Tali on Rannoch. Her death, and the destruction of the Migrant Fleet, hit me like a punch in the gut. I swear, this game has left me with emotional scars to match Garrus’s face.

Two broken hearts beat a limping, syncopated rhythm together.

Shepard had held it together—barely—until the shuttle made it back to the _Normandy._ She had shed her armor and stowed her weapons in silence, her lips pressed into a tight, quivering line. And her voice had cracked when he’d reached out to stop the elevator at Deck 3 and his post in the Main Battery. “Stay with me, Garrus,” she’d begged. “Please.”

And so he’d accompanied her to her cabin. He didn’t particularly want to be alone, either.

Now they sat on the end of her bed, and Garrus held her as she screamed and sobbed. He felt a keening cry building at the back of his own throat, but he choked it back, for her sake. He would grieve aloud later. She needed him to be strong, to hold together while she fell apart. To pick up the pieces afterward.

Tali was gone. Tali, who had been with them since the beginning. Tali, who had helped them bring down Sovereign and beat back the Collectors. Tali’Zorah vas Normandy, sweet and kind and so much a part of this crew that she had borne the ship’s name.

Shepard, he knew, blamed herself. In her mind, it had been her decision to upgrade the geth that had destroyed the Migrant Fleet, driving Tali to remove her mask and throw herself from a cliff. If only she had reacted a little faster, she would say, she could have saved her.

She was trying to shoulder the responsibility for the fate of the Migrant Fleet, too. Seventeen million quarians had died, the flotilla annihilated, all because of Admiral Han’Gerrel’s blind insistence on vengeance. He had refused to believe the geth had been changed, refused to see the larger Reaper threat, and his people had died for it. And Shepard blamed herself for it all.

Garrus couldn’t fault her for screaming.

She was wrong about it all, of course. She’d made the right decisions. The upgraded geth would be enormously valuable allies against the Reapers, and they had only acted in self-defense. If only the flotilla had _stood down,_ the battle would have been over, a victory for both sides. Perhaps then, Tali would not been driven to such despair.

But _if only_ could change nothing. Their friend was dead.

With trembling fingers, Garrus stroked Shepard’s hair. It hurt him to see her like this, broken and bleeding from wounds that could not be seen. And he had never, ever seen her go so utterly and completely to pieces.

Truth be told, it frightened him a little. Morgan Shepard was one of the strongest individuals he’d ever known. She had always borne pain stoically, and tragedy with grim determination. He knew how to respond to that, could always figure out how to make her feel better, even if only temporarily. But now… he was lost. He didn’t know what to say, what to do. He could only hold her as her tears soaked his tunic.

Garrus felt useless. Worse than useless—he was afraid his silence was upsetting her more. She would think he didn’t care, about her or about Tali. She would think he was getting impatient with her, or that he thought less of her because she was crying. He had to say something. Anything.

“Shepard…”

Her grip on him tightened, fabric bunching in her hands, then she released him and straightened. Her breath still came in hitching, shuddering gasps as she roughly swiped the tears from her face. She smoothed her shirt as she gradually regained her composure, studiously avoiding his eyes. “I’m sorry, Garrus,” she croaked. “I didn’t mean to—“

No, no, no, this was just what he’d been afraid of. “Hey,” he interrupted, as gently as his alarm would allow. “Don’t apologize.” He reached out one hand to cup her cheek, and she slowly, reluctantly, turned to face him again.

What Garrus saw there made his heart sink. It was the infamous Shepard calm, the armor she wore as comfortably as the pieces of ceramic and metal stashed in the Armory. She pretended to be unaffected, locking her pain away in some tiny compartment at the back of her soul, telling herself she’d deal with it later.

But that little box was already fit to burst. Garrus had seen that same expression on her face as they had returned through the Omega-4 relay: triumphant, yes, but missing three of their crew. The losses of Legion, Samara, and Thane had taken their toll. He had seen it again, worn a bit thinner, when she told him about the Reaper attack on Earth. Her war face.

Now that war face was little more than a blank mask as emotion battled self-control and clearly had the upper hand. Shepard was trembling with the effort it took to keep that mask in place.

Her eyes, though, betrayed the war zone inside her head. Their normally clear emerald green was cloudy with grief, and more tears threatened—one for every quarian in the flotilla, and never, never enough for Tali.

“No, I’m making a fool of myself, carrying on like this,” she said. “You lost a friend, too. The last thing you need is me—“

“Stop, Shepard. Just stop.” Garrus slid his hand around to the back of her neck, and leaned down to touch his forehead to hers. “I’m—I’ll be fine. The _only_ thing I need is you.”

Shepard closed her eyes, her dark lashes wet and spiky against her cheek. “I’m trying.”

Spirits, why did she insist on misunderstanding? Why was she taking everything he said as a reason to clamp down harder, to harden that mask?

Then it dawned on him. He knew how to reach her. “I don’t need your war face, Shepard,” he said, subvocals thrumming in emphasis. “I said I need _you._ The real you. Yeah, I lost a friend today; we all did. And I need to… to share that. With someone. With you.” He stammered to a halt, heart pounding, that keen threatening to burst free. His mandibles flicked with worry as he studied her for a response.

He’d never been good with words, yet Shepard always seemed to understand him, to know what he was trying to say. He prayed she understood now.

Her eyes searched his, seeking and finding a match for her own pain. Garrus could almost see those shields of hers flicker and fail. She crumpled against him, and he gathered her into his arms once more. Together, they gave voice to their grief, letting it wash over them, each clinging to the other so they wouldn’t be lost in the tide.

Together, they mourned.

For the flotilla. For the fallen. For Tali.


End file.
